Billy surveyed an antique table displaying a polished punch bowl in the shape of a giant octopus. “The shop looks great, as always.”

“Thanks. Did you see Camille’s new prints? I can’t keep them in stock. I’ve sold four of them already tonight.” She gestured at a display of the three newest prints, matted and framed on a beadboard wall.

The center image was one Camille had rendered from an old daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe. Printed on archival paper, the portrait had a haunting quality, as elusive and scary as his poems. Next to those prints were examples of Camille’s own work. She almost never took pictures anymore, so these were from years before. She’d used a vintage large-format Hasselblad, capturing local scenes with almost hyperrealistic precision.

When Jace was still alive, Camille had been a chaperone on one of Julie’s school trips to the White House. It had been one of those days when shot after shot seemed to be sprinkled with fairy dust, from the dragonfly hovering perfectly over a pond in the Kennedy Garden, to a frozen moment of two girls holding hands as they ran along the east colonnade, framed by sheer white columns.

“I love these,” said a browsing tourist. “That’s such a beautiful shot of the White House Rose Garden.”

“Here’s the artist,” Billy said, nudging Camille forward.

“It’s very intriguing,” the woman said. “It looks as if the picture was taken at some earlier time.”

“They’re from six years ago. I was shooting with an antique camera that day,” Camille said.

“My daughter has a great collection of old cameras,” Cherisse said. “She does her own developing and printing.”

“Well, it’s fantastic. I’m going to get this one for a good friend who loves old photographs, too.” She smiled, picking up the Rose Garden print.

Camille was flattered, and she felt a wave of pride. She wished Jace had lived to see this. “Maybe this hobby of yours will turn into something one day,” he used to tell her.

“. . . on the back,” the woman was saying.

“Sorry,” Camille said. “What was that?”

“I wondered if you could write a message on the back,” she said. “To Tavia.”

“No problem.” The woman seemed a bit quirky, though perfectly nice. Camille found a pen and added a short greeting and her signature to the back of the mat.

“Let’s go drink,” Billy said after she finished. “I can watch you get hit on at the Skipjack.”

“Good plan,” she said, making a face. Guys didn’t hit on her, and he knew it.

She and Billy made their way to the rustic tavern, a nineteenth-century brick building near the fishing pier. The crowd here was friendly and upbeat, spilling out onto the deck overlooking the water.

“Is it just me,” Billy murmured, scanning the crowd, “or do we know at least half the people here?”

“The perks of growing up in a small town,” she said.

“Or the drawbacks. There are at least two women here I’ve slept with. Should I say hi, or pretend I don’t see them?”